The Show Goes On
by VictoriaTai
Summary: When the opera house burned six years ago, Erik never expected to see Christine again. But when he finds her again purely by accident, he must reconcile his heart with how she has changed. EC, Moviefiction. COMPLETE.
1. Act One: Setting the Stage

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Act 1: Setting the stage

The Phantom of the Opera had died that night.

He had lost his opera house. The Opera Populaire had all but burned to the ground. With it, it took his stage, it took his scenery, it took his costumes, and it took his chandelier. It took the beautiful woodwork, it took the red velvet seats, it took the gold enameled furnishings. It took all of the upper passages he had known so well, it took half of his home.

He had lost the rest of his home to something infinitely more fierce and more destructive than fire—human hands. The mob had nearly found him as they rushed through the caverns under the opera house. They flooded his home with their boots and their beings, they ruined the air with their shouts and their curses. Everything they touched came to destruction. His organ smashed to beautiful ivory pieces. His hangings torn to shreds. His drawings ripped and scattered, his music burned, his clothing tossed to the murky depths of the lake. All that was left unscathed by their hands were his mirrors, and he had seen to those himself before any of the others had arrived.

They had not found him, though. He had watched their every step from behind one of those mirrors—their images cracked before him as they destroyed his every possession. He could hear the mob coming for him and he had almost let them find him but the memory of Christine's kiss lingered on his lips. He could not let that die. Mere moments before he would have been visible in the torchlight, he shut himself away and watched as his home was torn to pieces. The yells and the thuds and the crashes echoed throughout the dark caverns and in his mind each and every one was a physical blow to himself. Everything he had worked for, everything he had made with his own two hands, it was all gone in a matter of minutes to the vengeful nature of humanity.

He watched as they gleefully set fire to each page of each copy of _Don Juan Triumphant_. He watched as his carefully inked sketches were smeared and smudged and balled up to be tossed around the room like so many scraps of paper. He watched as a young blonde girl slipped away from the crowd, toward a darkened corner it seemed no one else would approach, and when she reappeared in the light she carried in her small hand what he had considered his most prized possession. His mask. The torches gave it an eerie glow. The flickering orange light brought it to life, it seemed to move even as she held it firmly in her hand. The shadows around it nearly gave to it a single gleaming eye held darkly under a ghostly forehead. It looked like it could have been the perfect flesh he never had. Behind his mirror, the Opera Ghost nearly wept again at the sight, one hand pressed to his face in an effort to imagine his precious mask resided just there, as it should.

"The Phantom of the Opera is dead" she had proclaimed in a somber voice he had never heard from her throat before. His throat had gone dry at the statement. An immediate hush had fallen, and she raised the mask high. "The Opera Ghost is dead," she repeated, more firmly than before. "He drowned. I saw his body taken by the current. This is all that is left." Resolve burned in her eyes and in her face as the tiny girl stood frozen in place, the mask held high above her pretty blonde head. For yet another time that night he felt like a monster—there to witness this girl become a woman.

Her words rippled through the mob. "Dead? But—" "—dead already he—" "—sure, he could—" "—he is dead then—" "—dead—"

"—Opera—"

"—Ghost—"

"—dead—"

Their words and hers echoed in his mind as he watched them slowly take to their torches and leave their destruction behind them. The once-Phantom of the Opera did not know why little Meg Giry had lied so—had lied to save him, it seemed—but it filled him at once with both relief and regret, and both for the same reason: he had lived. A part of him refused to die and that part won out over what wanted nothing more than sweet oblivion. To die, he though, would complete this night. To die alone.

He had lost the one beautiful thing he had ever had. He had lost the light in his darkness. He has lost his Christine, his Angel of Music—he had lost her to the young, handsome, dashing, charming Vicomte de Chagny. He had lost her to a man who was everything he was not. What she had wanted was not him, what she had wanted was the opposite of him and that knowledge tore at what remained of his soul.

He had never loved anyone as he had loved Christine. He had long thought himself dead to the world, but she warmed his cold heart and taught it to beat once more. Then just tonight, she had taken that beating heart in her hand and torn it from him as his boat carried her into the murky darkness. She went willingly with her vicomte and with that last look she had nearly killed him. His Angel of Music disappeared into the blackness over the lake—he knew he would never see her again.

No one really knew much about the man who lived on the corner. Within only the weeks since his arrival, he had already become a figure of neighborhood legend. The house itself was said to have been haunted and sat on the market for nearly a decade before he took it without a backward glance. They said he cared not a whit for ghosts. They said he laughed in the face of ghosts.

The more daring said that he himself, that tall man in black, was a ghost. That he left his house only under the cover of darkness to wander the streets of Paris in the night, haunting the blackest of corners. That his footsteps fell with no sound, that his long dark cape did not rustle, and that not even his breathing could be heart. They said that under the brim of his blackest hat, his face shone with the blinding white of the undead and no one was ever to see it and live to tell the tale.

The man on the corner had lived in that house for only days when the stories began to circulate as they must in the upper crust of Paris society. Not a week had passed since his arrival when mothers began to warn their children to behave, lest the ghost of the corner find them in their sleep. Whispers flitted through doors and eyes peered through windows but the most anyone ever saw of their mysterious neighbor was no more than the swish of a cloak and the movements of the shadows not even the dead could hide from the living.

The ghost was no ghost. The ghost was a man too used to living in darkness to ever live anywhere else. For the past six years he had traveled all of Europe—the creature of the night perfectly at home in the cities across the continent. Months in Madrid, a year in Venice, another year flitting across Austria. Time spent traveling from Rome to Sicily and back again was time well spent. And always he had traveled in style for nothing less would suit the former Phantom of the Opera.

In the decades he had haunted the opera house, he had always demanded a bribe—a bribe he called his salary. The managers always had their patrons and had their money, money to spare. And when he knew the opera house better than any other living creature, when he could call to them from the walls of their own offices and let them hear voices in their sleep, the bribe was willingly paid. As the stories grew, so did the money delivered to Box 5 once a month. He lived on as little as possible, stowed the rest away behind one of his many mirrors where it was safe from the destructive mob. He was a wealthy, wealthy man.

But when the Opera Populaire had burned nearly to the ground, he had thought his soul burned with it. He did not dare venture into Paris—his first outing into the city had been his last as he made for the train to Barcelona. All of Europe had been open to him as it had not been for decades and he had lost himself in the cities of the night. Drowned himself in expensive wines and even more expensive travels and all the while tried to bury the man he had once been.

That man was not to be buried so easily, however. Time and time again he broke free and the Phantom broke down. He would spend days, weeks, eventually even months in utter solitude. He wouldn't move, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep for hours upon hours until he fainted on the floor and came to weeping. He had sins to atone for and a past he could not run from and the slightest part of his soul that had survived the fires begged for that atonement. He knew that simply being there would be enough-he had to go to Paris.

And so he had returned to haunt the city that had haunted him so.


	2. Act Two: Finding the Players

Act 2: Finding the players

It had taken him several weeks to relearn Paris. He had known so much of it decades before, but the years of isolation and estrangement had taken their toll on the city he had mapped in his head. There were new places, new streets, and new secrets. New money, new words…

And most importantly, new people.

Nearly all of Paris knew of the Monsieur Nadir—the Persian _daroga_ who had left his titles behind in the land of his birth to embark on a grand journey in search of a dear old friend. The Monsieur Nadir was known to be pleasant company, an inquisitive man of charming smiles, steady speech, and impeccable manners. He had lived in the city for nearly five years—it was said that he would not leave until he had found this friend, a friend that seemed bound to Paris. In truth, not a soul wanted the daroga to leave. He had become far too dear a presence.

No one knew the man who pounded on his door that July morning, a man dressed in all black despite the bright summer's day. He had worn a fedora pulled down over his face, hiding him from view, though a powerful voice echoed from under the brim.

"Nadir!" he called. "Daroga! Do not tell me that you have abandoned that impeccable Persian hospitality such that you would leave an old friend on the doorstep."

The tall mahogany door swung aside and in an instant the man had disappeared into the house. In the bustle of the street, he might as well have never stood there.

Erik had set no more than a single foot inside the house when he was pulled into a strong embrace, dark arms wrapping around him and dark hands pounding him on the back. The tall Persian laughed, giddy as a young boy as he held his old friend close. He found himself unable to release him. In all his years, Nadir was one of the only people Erik had been able to hold in true respect. The former Persian policeman held such dignity and authority that it would have been nearly impossible not to. As a close friend, Nadir had been a rare find, though it had taken their long separation for him to realize how rare. An equal, a man he could actually speak to, was a treasure indeed. A genuine smile broke out across Erik's face as he held onto his friend a moment longer.

"Erik!" he cried. "At last we find each other again, my dear friend. It has been too long, too long. Come in, sit down! Regale me with all those wonderful stories you tell."

And Erik did. He followed Nadir through the richly furnished home soaking in the elaborate tapestries, the beautiful dark wood, and the paintings that hung from the walls. Nadir had always indulged himself in the finer things in life, and took particular pride the faultless upkeep of his abode. As a man who entertained many guests, it was to be expected, but Erik had not seen a home nearly as fine as this since he had left Nadir in Persia some—

"Ten years, Erik," Nadir said, ushering for him to take a seat. "Ten long years, my friend. I came to Paris half that time ago to seek your person, and I must say that I became so enamored with this city I could not bring myself to ever leave it. Paris has truly lived up to your rich description and far beyond." The Persian moved fluidly through his home, like a man in utter and complete control of his surroundings—someone who portrayed a demeanor foreign to unease, though Erik knew better. A composure such as that came from years of practice, not a lifetime of naivete.

Paris, it seemed, had done the once-quiet Nadir good. Erik had met the man nearly twenty years before as he traveled through Persia—he had saved the daroga's life. Nadir did not throw this debt lightly aside, instead remaining loyally at Erik's side, the two men becoming fast friends through a sense of mutual respect. Each admired in the other his intelligence, his dignity and pride, and the way with which he held himself.

"I am glad you have enjoyed my city, dear daroga," Erik told him, treating the man to another uncharacteristic smile. "She has been good to you, I see."

Nadir laughed as he settled into his own chair. He had even abandoned his own dress for the tailored suits and fashions of the city he now inhabited. "That she has. Paris has agreed with me splendidly. But come, Erik, where have you been these years? I finally come to France to find you, only to discover that your opera house had burned and the infamous Opera Ghost had vanished. After your tales of your epic adventures in the opera, I had thought you would never leave it."

Erik paused. "So you have heard more of the stories of the Opera Populaire?" he asked, his voice softer. He had known the stories would spread, though he had not known how far. How much did Nadir know? Was it just of the fire, or did he know of the chandelier as well? Of Buquet and Piangi and the Punjab lasso, of falling backdrops and mysterious notes, and a ballet mistress partner-in-crime? Did he know of the Vicomte de Chagny—did he know of Christine Daaé?

But his reply was only another smile. "Only that the wealthiest opera house in Paris burned to the ground. That had happened nearly two years before I arrived—the city's people had long since moved on to fresher gossip. You must know more on this than I do, though. Do you wish to enlighten me?"

Relief flooded through Erik. Someday he would tell Nadir the story, though the idea of the tale being sprung from seedy gossiping lips was hardly tolerable. He could only imagine how it had all been twisted in the vapid minds of the more rumor-hungry Parisians.

And so with a shake of his head, Erik declined. "That is a story for another day, my friend, far too dark a tale for a reunion," he replied. "For these years, though I have traveled all of Europe. I have been to Italy, to Spain, to Austria, to—"

He was at that moment interrupted by a little child, bursting into the room. She was a girl of four or possibly five, Erik estimated, in a small yellow dress and wearing matching ribbons in her dark hair. A bright, blue-eyed child with chestnut ringlets and a smile stretched ear to ear, she scampered through the door and to Nadir's side, her hair trailing behind her and her little feet nearly catching the rug as she struggled to lift them high enough. Her small hands on his knee, she stood up as tall as she could on her tiptoes to whisper directly in his ear. "Monsieur Nadir," Erik could still hear her even as she struggled to keep her voice low. It was a stage whisper, at best. "Mama says that tea is nearly ready and would you like me to bring it out now?" She spoke with a slight lisp—endearing even to Erik, though he had never much cared for small children.

But no sooner had she silenced than she turned her gaze to Erik. Her tiny face peered into his, her eyes immediately focusing on his mask with a childish curiosity. She stared for several moments, her little brow furrowed, before she whipped back around to Nadir. "Who is your guest, Monsieur, and why does he play hiding games with me?"

Nadir made as if to admonish the small girl for staring but Erik shook his head. "She is but a child, Nadir, and far too precious a child to be your own, I'd wager."

His friend laughed. "You run along back to your mother, Meg," he instructed softly. "Tell her that we are nearly ready for tea, but ask if she would make sure to bring it out." Gently, he pinched the young girl's cheek and she made a face at him. "The poor woman spent an hour scrubbing tea out of the rug the last time she let you carry it, remember?"

"But that was not my fault, Monsieur," the child pouted as she sulked from the room. Her voice trailed off as the door shut behind her. "I did not mean to slip but the cat…"

Erik watched as the small figure retreated. "If the girl is not yours, Nadir, than whose is she?"

The other man smiled and laughed. "That, my friend, is a bit of a story—and why should I bore you with my tales when you have stories of travel to tell me, hmm?" Nadir relaxed into his chair, legs crossed and hands behind his head.

"Daroga, I have known you some twenty years now," Erik began. "And never have I known you to give free reign of your house to a child—especially one that was not yours. The notorious Persian policeman, with a mystery girl running loose through him home? What has this world come to?"

Even as he spoke Erik realized that he was simply avoiding the tale of the Opera Populaire. So much of his travel was influenced by that single night, and by all the nights leading up to it. Any story of the past six years was sure to involve the years and the pain before that—and that was a story he was not yet ready to tell. Of all people in the world he should be able to tell Nadir, but nearly ten years of separation could not be so easily put aside with ten minutes of small talk.

Fortunately for Erik, the time spent with the Paris elite had made Nadir all to willing to focus the conversation on himself, obliging in his friend's subtle request. Well, Erik surmised, it was either that or Nadir could still read his very thoughts through only the barest of body language.

"You know, Erik, that I am not one for employing too many domestic servants. I am not usually home enough to require the services of people waiting on me hand and foot. However, darling Meg there is the daughter of one of the two domestics I _do_ have here in my service." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows, steeping his fingers as he spoke.

"Her mother was married to a man of high society—a Comte, if I recall correctly, but I never was any good with your French titles. Her young husband was disowned by his family for marrying a girl below his class. Oh, but Erik, even you know how people can be when they are young and in love." Nadir grinned broadly to match his joking tone and Erik took no offense. "They cared not a whit about his family and went on their merry way, if you will forgive my horrible pun. I had been an acquaintance with this family, though I must say I estranged myself from them after this bit of scandal.

"The young husband, however, did not relinquish his title. He continued to carry it with him wherever he went and when he traveled abroad to England for a business proposal, he was kidnapped and held for ransom. His wife could not pay and she could not contact his family for the money—he was killed overseas, leaving her here in Paris, with child and practically penniless.

"And I…I am not entirely the man you once knew, Erik. I was passing by when I saw the young woman and her baby daughter, evicted from their home. I could not stand and do nothing, so I offered to take her in until she could get herself back on her feet. With nowhere else to go, she accepted. She started doing odd jobs around the house to earn her keep and, well," Nadir shrugged and grinned despite himself. "She takes better care of the house than I have ever been able to, even with little Meg underfoot. She keeps it clean, she helps get meals on the table, she even balances my finances—you know how those numbers used to trouble me so. I would not give her up for the life of me."

Erik nodded, slowly. "I detect more than a hint of admiration in your voice, daroga. You think of a possible Madame Nadir, perhaps?"

Nadir laughed aloud, then quickly apologized. "She is too dear a friend to me—she has helped me so much, I do not think I could see her as anything else. Several guests have asked to woo her, surely, several have even asked for her hand, though none have yet met success. To some she says that her heart still lies with her late husband, to others she says that her heart belongs to another man. Whichever the truth, she is too big a help for me to ever let go. If this other man exists, well Erik, pray with me that he never finds my door."

Erik opened his mouth to respond when a shrill shriek cut him off and little Meg came barreling through the door once more. She ran immediately for Nadir, clinging to his knee with her tiny fists clutched in the fabric of his pants, and pointed back in the direction from which she had come. "The cat, Monsieur," she whispered. "The cat hates me, Monsieur, she chases me. I do not like the cat, Monsieur."

"I'm afraid that cat does not like you, my dear, nor anyone else for that matter. But do not worry, she will not harm you." He laid a hand on her head, even his skin looking light in contrast to her dark curls.

The child took no heed of the soothing gesture, turning her big blue eyes to Erik. "But she points her teeth at me," she protested.

At that moment, the cat prowled into the room, arching her back and claiming the house as her own with every step she took. She was a beautiful black cat, her fur catching the light like water as she strolled along. All at once she stopped, one paw in mid-air, and sniffed around as is she had just noticed she had company. Bright green eyes took in each figure and she changed direction, sauntering over towards Erik. With a spring of her lithe legs, she leapt into his lap, purring contentedly as she rubbed her glossy head against his arm.

Nadir smiled. "It seems I was wrong, little Meg. She's quite taken with my friend Monsieur Erik here."

A new voice floated through the house. "Marguerite!" It grew closer with each passing moment and Erik's hand froze in mid-stroke as he pet the cat. He knew that voice. "Marguerite, you silly little demon, you know better than to sneak out from under me when my hands are full!"

He more than knew that voice. That voice was central to the core of his being. He had spent years upon years of his adult life _training_ that very same voice. He knew its pitch, he knew its timbre, he knew how it enunciated its words and he knew what sounds it would skip. He knew how to bend it to his music and how wield it to bring angels to their knees. The pieces all fell rapidly into place.

"Meg! You know you should not disturb Monsieur Nadir when he has company."

The little girl—bright blue eyes, chestnut curls.

Erik felt his heart skip a beat.

"Marguerite!"

The young widow—once married to a Comte. A Vicomte. A _penniless_ Vicomte.

His eyes went wide.

"Meg, will you at least please come and open the door for your Mama?"

That _voice_.

He felt his world come crashing to a halt, his breath catching high in his throat as the door to the kitchen swung open once more. The shadow behind it emerged into the light, holding the door open with a single dainty foot. All the while, Erik struggled for air as the figure came fully into the room. He could not will himself to move, the others in the room were hardly bound to a similar fate and three things happened at once.

Hissing, the cat leapt from his lap.

Little Meg shrieked.

And in the doorway Christine de Chagny gasped, the tea tray crashing to the ground.

Erik sat in his chair as if glued to the spot, watching wordlessly as Christine dropped to her knees and immediately began to clean the mess she had made. Six years had changed her. She wore full skirts of a deep, dark green that reached from her waist to the floor, her cream-colored blouse traveling the length of her arms and securing high along her throat. Her lovely swan's neck was the same milky pale—all the more graceful with her hair swept back. The chestnut curls she had passed on to her daughter—_her daughter!_—were pulled into a high, loose jumble as various ringlets escaped to dust her face and neck and skin. His eyes alighted on her face, on the porcelain features, on the smear of white across one cheek…

A double-take on his part—flour. Flour on her face and flour handprints on her skirts in two sizes—one set adult and one side child. It looked as though little Meg had a penchant for getting into things as even at that moment Christine was shooing her away. "No, no, ma petite," she reprimanded gently. "You do not want your hands in this, you will hurt yourself. Run, go play with your angel in the other house. He will keep you safe from all these sharp edges."

She did not lift her head as she continued to brush pieces of teacups onto the tray and Meg disappeared through another door. "My apologies, Monsieur Nadir. I was simply startled—I did not mean to drop it. If you will pardon me, I will have this cleaned up in moments." The pieces nearly gathered up, Christine moved to swab the mess with the hem of her skirts.

Nadir's hand on her shoulder stilled her. "My dear Madame de Chagny, I would have broken all those teacups myself long ago had I not feared the wrath of my mother's ghost—" he did not seem to notice the slight shivers from both Erik and Christine at his choice of words. "There is no use in you dirtying your skirts on the account of my dark rugs. You keep searching for pieces and I shall dig us up something to mop that with properly."

With that, he exited the room, leaving Erik and Christine alone.

Under his gaze, she froze where she knelt, her eyes focused on the floor. He watched as she squeezed them shut before relenting and lifting her head to gaze upon her angel's face. The tears that gathered in the corners of those eyes he knew well, those bright shining blue eyes that had judged him in his dreams for all the years past. Those eyes locked onto his, and he felt his breathing grow more labored as he returned her stare. Neither of them moved—not until a single droplet escaped and slid down that pale cheek.

Without hesitation, Erik rose to his feet and knelt before her. His hand cupped her jaw as he gently wiped away the tear with the pad of his thumb, leaning in close to her until all his world was filled with was her pale face, brilliantly wreathed in its curls. Her eyes searched his frantically for an answer, any answer, for anything he would say to her.

"Do not cry for me, Christine," he hissed through his teeth, his voice and his sarcasm at such odds with his behavior. He sneered and pulled his thumb across the carpet, pushing the tear into the spilt tea. "Not now, and not ever again. The monster you left behind for death's embrace would never be worth tears such as yours." She stared at him in stunned silence, unmoving. Her face spoke volumes of sorrow, pity, and guilt, though none of it could she put to words even as she struggled to compose herself.

He left her there on the floor as he stalked through the room and out onto the street. His cloak wrapped around him with practiced ease, he slipped his fedora back down over the mask…the hated remnant of a past that would not forget him and he could no longer forget.

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_**Author's Notes:** Infinite thanks to Christa for going through this chapter not once but twice. Without a doubt, the most amazing editor I have ever come across. Thank you, thank you, thank you!_


	3. Act Three: The Show Goes On

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Act 3: And the show goes on

For nearly a week, Erik did not leave his dark house on the corner. His solution to any problem had always been to hide until it passed and now was no different. He paced his house for days, his mind latching on to any excuse no matter how feeble to forget Christine. He fixed anything that had been broken, and broke a few things to have a reason to fix them. His stacks of unfinished musical scores only grew as he scribbled and threw notes onto paper after paper as even more sheets were tossed to the floor in disgust.

His heart ached to return to the daroga's home, to go and see Christine once more, but his prudence always intervened. More than once, he had been dressed and prepared to leave the house only to regain his wits the moment his fingers contacted the doorknob. Seeing her was agonizing—and if her tears had been any indication, his presence had given her the same reaction. He would not torment himself or her for the sake of his own curiosity.

He dared not even resume his old spying tricks for fear he would abandon his already fragile control of himself and confront her. So much of him had always wanted to hurt her as badly as he had been hurt by her. From nearly the day she had left him, he had known what he would say to her on their next meeting. He had planned out what he would say, how he would say it, and how she would react to him—screaming and crying and ultimately fleeing, her wealthy Vicomte always at her side.

But then he had seen her kneeling on the floor, gazing at him with only guilt and tears in her eyes. Christine had looked at him in the same damnable way that first time she had taken his mask. He had not been able to bring himself to hate her then, and he could not hate her now. All the angry words he had stored for so long were laid to waste by a single tear, a single glance, from her. Christine was engraved in his soul, a light untouched by darkness.

On his travels he had seen many girls who resembled her—some with their innocence, some with their coloring, some with their movements—and several times he had even thought he had seen _her_. He had been happiest in Venice that very first year when a young lady of the night had crossed his path, a girl not yet twenty with large blue eyes and skin as fair as a child's. Unfettered of any bands or upswept style were dark curls that tumbled against her bare shoulders, fanning out beautifully across his pillow when he bedded her. She was the temporary salve for his deep wounds, a temporary illusion of his beloved Christine. The girl had called him by his given name, allowed herself to succumb to arresting melody of his voice. She gave him every satisfaction of the flesh in exchange for the handsome allowance and his mind had thought his heart was fooled. But one night she had opened her mouth in a clumsy, childish attempt to join his song and the dream was shattered. )

Erik had not so much as touched another woman since. Not until Christine was before him, held her face in his hands, had he longed for anyone to touch him in return. Her very presence drove him mad, breaking those years of careful self-control.

He was hardly shocked when a knock came to his door that afternoon. Honestly, Erik was amazed that it had taken the famed Nadir a full week to track down his whereabouts. Once Nadir knew that he was in Paris, Erik had not thought it would be difficult for the former policeman to trace the rumors of the "mysterious man on the corner" to their source. It seemed, he thought with a bit of pride, than either his stealth had improved or Nadir was losing his touch.

He had been drowning in notes and paper and scores when the sharp rap to the wood of his door rang out across the front hall. At first he had not recognized the sound, though when it came once again, he pulled himself out of his musical trance long enough to fit his mask before crossing the room. He opened the door a mere crack, his shadow filling the empty space behind it. "What is it?" he spat through gritted teeth, not hiding his frustration at being disturbed.

It was a light female voice that answered. "Pardon me, Monsieur, but I was told to deliver a message to deliver to the master of the house."

Erik went cold. Christine stood on the other side of his door, so close that he could reach out and touch her. He watched her lingered on his doorstep, her hands would be clasped in front of her as she was wont to have them. Her hair tumbled free, her cloak pulled high over her shoulders. His heart had conspired against him, never letting him forget. The hand he had braced against the wall began to tremble.

"What sort of message?" he growled, pulling together all the self-control he could muster.

There was a pause before she replied. In his mind, he could see her eyes go wide. "Oh god." Her whisper floated through the small crack in the door and he could feel an extra weight as she set her hand against it. "Erik?"

She knew him, had recognized his voice. Resignedly, Erik extended his hand through the crack in the door. "Hand me the message, Christine," he said, his voice low and dangerous. There were no words in response, but he could feel her trembling as warm fingers pressed a small piece of paper into his gloved palm. He was equally silent as he drew it back to himself and slit the seal, unfolding it to read:

__

Erik. After all this time, I should have known how difficult you would be to find, but you cannot evade me forever. I know not your quarrel with this woman but I ask you to overcome it—for the sake of our friendship. I would not have you avoid my house like the plague for the rest of both our lifetimes. Nadir.

He squeezed his eyes shut and balled the note in his fist. He was torn between his dearest friend and the woman whose mere voice pitted his heart against his mind. But for Nadir—and for his own dark curiosity—he would risk himself once again. Licking his lips and swallowing hard, Erik took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the door. Under his steady arm it opened gradually, revealing the wide blue eyes of Christine de Chagny.

She seemed frozen to the spot, her very breath caught as she took in the sight of his stark white mask against the shadows. "Come in," he hissed in a guttural whisper, standing to one side. "I have a reputation to keep that does not include strange women standing on my doorstep." She recovered from her initial shock, and lifted the hem of her skirts out of the way of her feet as she swiftly moved into the house, glancing first behind her and then up at him.

The door slammed shut almost of its own accord the moment she stepped inside. She whirled around to find that he had released her arm and stepped behind her, one hand still lingering against the doorframe. In the other was clutched the note.

"Did you read this?" Erik demanded, his white mask gleaming in the candlelight.

She shook her head fiercely, her eyes betraying both scorn and bewilderment. "The seal was unbroken when I handed it to you," she insisted, her voice colder than it had been only moments earlier on the other side of the door. "Surely you do not think me so low as to read my master's messages?"

"Madame de Chagny," he began, condescending and sarcastic. "I have witnessed the depths of human depravity, and you, my dear, are hardly above it." He turned his back to her, stalking off to where the music he had been writing lay strewn across the floor. His voice held such contempt, and yet he could not bear to look at her. Six years had not been long enough to wear away at the beauty that had burned itself into his heart.

"Erik…" she started in protest.

He cut her off. "Erik?" he repeated slowly, standing from where he had been gathering his papers together. "And where did you come to learn that name? Perhaps you have been reading your master's messages after all." Cautiously, he turned towards her, watching her where she stood in the dim light. The hall was best lit where he stood—where he wrote his music, though the shadows could not hide her face from him, nor slake his aching heart.

Her lips were drawn into a tight line, her eyes hard. "Monsieur Nadir told me the name…I know not how else to address you. I am certainly too old to believe you an angel." Christine crossed her arms over her chest, her traveling cloak still resting darkly on her shoulders. In her boldness, she seemed older than her twenty-three years, the hair drawn away from her face adding maturity.

"Then again, what else would you have me call you? Opera Ghost? The Phantom of the Opera?" She used the titles mockingly. "Without an opera house, it is difficult for either to apply."

Erik quickly composed himself—he was not used to a Christine who fought him like this. The Christine he had known had always been eager to please. This girl had found deep within herself the spirit to counter him. Something—perhaps the unfettered contempt of the Paris elite while she was married, had brought her to this sort of biting defense. He was certain his surprise must have shown on his face, even if only for a moment.

"And who do we blame for that, Madame?" he asked, his voice like silk. "Perhaps the silly child who allowed herself to be manipulated into betraying the man who had brought her to such heights! You know quite well that had you not gone along with their little scheme, the Opera Populaire would still stand. Why did you allow yourself to fall in with that—surely could not have thought that I would not uncover their worthless plot?"

For a few seconds Christine said nothing, merely looked at him with guilty, imploring eyes. Then she regained her composure and tightened her face. "You felled that chandelier yourself—there is no other to blame for that!" she insisted defiantly. "And if you knew the scheme, why take to the stage? You knew there would be soldiers, you knew there would be dangers, and yet you added one more to your body count because your pride forced you to perform your own opera!" She had begun to advance on him, her face set, concealing the guilt he had seen only moments before. "Why even come on stage if not to torment me further?"

"Torment you?" Erik laughed. "The torment would have been watching that fool Piangi attempt to sing the part of Don Juan in my final act. The scene required skill, not a large voice and larger gut. No, Madame, I simply could not allow him to take the stage." As she had approached he took a step to the side, then another, circling her slowly as he spoke.

"But you, Madame de Chagny? Oh, how you responded to me."

His mouth twisted into a mocking grin, his eyes dancing with malice. "You became Aminta as I had become Don Juan. The words we sang that night were more than lines on a mere script. 'In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent'…You sang that from your heart—and with your previous Vicomte sitting in attendance. I saw him, Madame, I saw his tears. He cried as he saw you give yourself over to me because you were _mine_, Christine. No one could have denied that—not you, not I, not him."

He watched with gleaming eyes as she struggled to compose herself long enough to form words. Still he circled and she twisted her head around as far as her neck would go to look at him as he looked at her. When confronted with his spite, her fighting spirit had begun to fail. She still kept a firm face, though, refusing to fall to tears just yet. This new bravery she held was unnerving to the memories of the timid chorus girl he had known. "But as you were mine and as I held you flush against me in my arms, what did you do then, Madame?"

"I was not yours," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She shook her head slowly, repeating herself. "I was never only yours."

Her words were soft, but they stopped him dead in his tracks. Only Nadir had ever dared counter him like this. "You would have been mine," he snapped. "Had that boy not interfered, you would have been happy with me. But he put you on that stage and you went along with that plan willingly. You stood on that bridge with me and you did exactly as he would have wished.

"You _betrayed_ me!" Erik growled, pausing in his advance. "Christine, you betrayed me as you reached up in the pretense of love, stripping me of my dignity and pride as surely as you ripped that mask from my face!" He moved closer once more, his movements predatory. Christine retreated until she stood with her back to the wall, her chest heaving between quick and shallow breaths. "Why did you do it?" he demanded, his tone softer, "it was only the first of many betrayals that night—why did you start down that path? Why did you strip me bare before all the eyes of Paris?"

"To save you!" she said resolutely, staring boldly into his eyes.

Her voice and sudden exclamation threw him. "What?" he hissed.

Christine's shoulders slumped, though she did not move her eyes from his face. "It was to save you," she repeated much more quietly, her eyes now brimming with tears. "Do you not think I have not lived a day without the regret of what pain I caused my angel in those moments? I knew as well then as I do now what I did to you—but I had to do it. You knew the plot and yet you came on stage—they would have shot you where you stood!" Her face pleaded for understanding as she continued. "I knew you too well, Erik, I knew that you had to vanish…and the only way you would willingly leave that stage was if…I had to, Erik, I had to! I could not see you die."

"But you were happy to leave me to rot in the caverns below!" he spat furiously, slamming a fist into the wall beside her head.

Christine flinched, her eyes going wide with sudden alarm at the force of the blow. He could see her breath hitch in her throat, could almost hear her pulse beating wildly. She glanced at his face, then at his fist and then back again but she did not shrink away from him. He drew a shaking breath and withdrew his hand, taking a step back.

"Erik?" she whispered. "Angel?" Her hand reached toward him.

"Don't touch me," he hissed, twisting away from her searching fingers. Angel. She had called him angel. Never again had he thought he'd hear that word fall from her lips like that. Her Angel of Music had turned into an Angel of Vengeance, it seemed. An angel out for blood. He turned from her and tilted his head back, willing himself to calm and searching the ceiling for answers. All these years, he had thought of what it would be like to see her again—never had he seen it like this.

"I suggest you leave, Madame de Chagny," he said softly, tremors in his voice from barely constrained emotion. "Tell Nadir I am sorry. I have I tried…but there are some things I will never forget."

For a few moments, the only sounds were her rushed breathing. When he heard her footsteps, he thought she was moving for the door, abandoning him once again. Suddenly, her voice whispered directly from behind him, accompanied by a feather-light touch to his shoulder. "I did not mean to leave you then," her gentle words barely audible even in the stillness of the room.

Once more he tore himself from her. "I told you not to touch me." He could not allow himself to find hope in what she had said.

But she repeated it, louder this time. "I did not mean to leave you then. I did not wish to leave you. I was a child, Erik. I was a girl, only seventeen. Can you forgive the woman she has become?"

Erik whirled around, facing her. "If you did not mean to leave me, why did you go?"

Christine paused, her eyes wide as they searched his face for any flicker of feeling. "Because I was confused," she admitted, her voice unsteady. "You were so demanding, so cruel…" He opened his mouth in a futile attempt to cut her off. "I loved you both, yet you threatened to kill him! When you released me to Raoul and tossed us both away, what else was I to do?"

Erik felt his entire body go dead with shock. "What did you say?" he asked, so softly he could barely hear his own voice.

"I loved you both," she repeated, more sure of herself. "Something I realized and accepted some time ago. I do not lie to you, Erik." Even as those tears streaked her face, she held her chin high and poised herself as a lady should. "I loved Raoul for his kindness, for his sweet words and the hope he inspired in me, but I would be lying to deny my love for you. I loved you for your music, for your passion…for the passion you ignited in me. I—"

He interrupted her, his eyes narrowing. "What game is it that you wish to play now, Christine? What do you hope to gain with your trickery?"

She glared at him, spitting anger through her expression. "I told you already, I am not lying! I—"

She cut herself off, ducking her head and crossing her arms over her chest. Her feet moved quickly as she walked past him, headed to the other side of the room where she stared fixedly at the wall. "Would I have sung like that had I not loved you? Would I have kissed you if had I not loved you?"

"Would you have left with him?" Erik countered harshly.

"Would I have chosen you?" she shot back, her shoulders squared and set but still she did not look at him. She took a deep breath, the light of the room still shining off her perfect curls. "Because you know as well as I that I did. 'You try my patience, make your choice' you said. I went out to you, Erik, not to Raoul. I gave myself to you and you gave me to him. You were not alone until you made yourself alone—do not fault me for that."

Erik could not believe what he was hearing. The choice she had made was only to save her Vicomte—that was what he had always known in his heart. Left to her own devices, Christine never would have chosen him. "What do you mean to say, Christine?" he demanded, stalking towards her until he was breathing over her shoulder. "You loved me, you say again and again, but did you really? Given the choice again, would you stay with me, you loved me so?"

"Do not ask that of me," she whispered, her eyes full of tears.

He laughed, a low noise from the back of his throat that was in no way pleasant. "And now the truth comes out, Madame de Chagny. You say you loved me, and yet you do not have it in your heart to even entertain the thought of loving me." He moved to turn away once more but she grabbed a hold of his shirt and would not release it.

"Foolish _man_," she spat, anger filling her. "Are you so blind, so incapable of seeing past yourself?"

The eyebrow not hidden by white slowly raised. "What other factor could be involved, if not something not related to myself or the Vicomte?" he asked, making no effort to disguise the contempt in his voice. "Yet another man, perhaps? Were you traitorous to your precious Vicomte as well as to me?"

Christine's open hand flew across his face, snapping his head to the side. "No! My daughter, Erik! My child! When you ask me to remake that choice, you ask me to give up my little Marguerite. No one can ever ask that of me, not even you! She is all I have and I will never leave her. _Never_."

Under his wide-eyed, astonished gaze, Christine was shaking. He raised a hand to his reddened cheek, watching with shock as it all began to pour out in a verbal tirade against him.

"Everyone I have ever loved has gone!" she insisted, tears streaming once more. "My mother, my father. You, Raoul. Madame and Meg Giry. You all leave and you don't come back to me! Marguerite is my own flesh and blood, and nothing you can say will ever make me regret her." Christine squeezed her eyes shut, wavering on her feet. As Erik reached to steady her, though, she stepped away from his touch.

"I thought I still loved you, Erik," she whispered as she turned to go, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head. "Even when I saw you at the home of Monsieur Nadir and you were still so unkind, I felt a flame in my heart I have not felt since…for a very long time." She sighed. "Now that I come here I see that the Angel I knew and loved has left forever. You are a mockery of that man."

"Christine, no, wait—" His voice choked. Something in her words had stopped his anger cold. Something in her words had allowed him to see her as he had never been able to see her before. He could not hate her. His brave little angel…what beauty she possessed—so fierce even in the presence of a beast. She was his light in a sea of darkness, and until he drew his last breath, he would love her. No matter what she had done or would do, he would love her.

Grasping, he reached forward and grabbed the edge of her cloak. She stopped slowly, and turned her head to look at him. Her beautiful blue eyes were bloodshot with tears, the stains tracing their way down her flawless cheeks. She was still so lovely it hurt him inside. He felt a stab of pain—those tears were of no fault but his own. "Christine," he repeated, his voice soft.

Perhaps she heard something in his voice, perhaps she saw the unspoken words in his deep eyes. Slowly, Christine approached him, watching him through her tear-strained eyes. Gently, she reached for him, her fingers brushing against his shoulders. Erik reached for her, his strong hands grasping her at the arms and holding her to him as he struggled for words.

Her questing hands did not stop at his shoulders. She looked him squarely in the eye as her fingers traveled up and up, dancing along his neck and jaw before coming to rest at the very edges of his mask. Erik said nothing, shaking while Christine gently slipped her fingers between his twisted skin and the smooth surface of his mask. Silent and trembling, he stood unmoving as she lifted the mask from his face, gazing upon his hideousness for the first time in six long years.

A flash of something—surprise?—flickered in her face, though her expression settled back into the unreadable as she held his gaze, her eyes never wavering from his. She held the mask that had once been his life leaving him completely exposed to her judgment. Christine closed her eyes and gently guided his face down to hers, pressing her soft lips first to the corner of his twisted eye, and then to his scarred cheek before finally resting her forehead gently against his.

The tears he had fought with poured forth at her kindness and he trembled, unable to keep control of himself. How could this sweet angel, this creature of perfection and beauty, show such tenderness to a monster? Erik pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around her with as much strength as he dared, nearly breaking when he felt her small hands on his back, pulling him equally close. "Your Angel never left you, Christine," he whispered into her hair, his voice choked with sobs.

She said nothing, but he could hear her humming softly and sweetly under her breath. It was a tune he knew well because it was one he himself had once written. When she opened her mouth she whispered the words she had once sung. "Angel, I hear you, speak—I listen," she began. Erik could feel her mouth move as she pressed her face into his shoulder. Her warm tears soaked through his shirt as they held each other. "Stay by my side, guide me."

"Angel, my soul was weak—forgive me." The words spilled from him in a rush, the last a plea that tore from his throat. Once more he cried into her hair, clutching her to him like a lifeline.

This was not Christine Daaé he held in his arms. Christine Daaé had been what she had said—a child, a girl of seventeen, lost and confused. Christine Daaé had the voice and the compassion that he loved, but her spirit had been weak and easily swayed. She had been a beautiful girl, but a girl nonetheless, still immature and capable of the most ultimate of betrayals.

The woman that held both him and his heart now was Christine de Chagny, a widow who had loved and lost time and time again. She was the voice he remembered, still possessed the same unyielding compassion. She understood what it meant to truly love, and love unconditionally. Her daughter had become her life—that little slip of a girl had turned his child angel into a woman. He could only pray that someday he would regain his place in her heart. For now, though, he was content to hold her and be near her again.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, pulling him from his thoughts with her choked voice. "Six years has been so long without you." Christine pulled away just enough to see his face. She smiled through her tears, her eyes red and bloodshot, but gleaming with joy all the same. "Could you ever find it in your heart to forgive me? To love me again?"

All breath left his body in a rush, and for a long moment, all Erik could was stare. His mind could hardly accept her words, but the smile that still rested so sweetly on her beautiful face was all the proof his heart needed. His Angel of Music had more than merely forgiven him—she had _seen_ him. She had looked past all of his passionate fury and once again understood the man behind the masked monster.

Little by little, a smile crossed his face. Not a smirk, not a malicious grin but an honest, open smile. "Forgiveness is but a trifle of all that I would give you," he said to her softly. "I would sell my very soul for you—to love you is not task but a favor I beg you to grant this twisted shell of a man."

And without a warning, her hands captured his jaw and she fairly leapt into his arms, pressing her lips to his with all the strength she could summon. Her fingers searched out his features as she kissed him, finding each and every welted scar and raised vein. Her kiss was one of sincere love, not of hapless pity. Erik pulled her flush to his body, his broad hands at her back, holding her close as her fingers delved into his hair. Six years of pain and separation vanished at the touch and they clutched each other. Even when their lips parted, they held each other still, breathing hard and crying both.

"I love you," Christine whispered as she showered his face with kisses, leaving no skin untouched. "And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, so sorry that I hurt you. I wish I could take all of your pain into myself and bear it a thousand times over to spare you of it because I never wanted to be so cruel. Oh Erik, I was so cruel to you."

They remained embraced, one beautiful moment fading into the next, every kiss speaking of the words they had longed to tell. For the moment, touch was enough and the only sounds were of their shallow breathing as they clung to each other. She rested her head against his shoulder, so close he could feel her lashes brush his throat as she closed her eyes. He relished the moment, her absolute trust. Every second that passed became one more in what he knew would be his most beautiful memory.

"Christine," Erik said, pulling back for a moment, the word escaping him in a soft hiss of air. Her name had always felt so precious to him, more beautiful than any sight on the earth, more enchanting than any of his grand melodies.

"I have done nothing to deserve your forgiveness, much less your love, and yet here you are in my arms. I fear waking any moment to find this was nothing but a beautiful dream."

Her kind smile was all the answer he needed.

FIN

**_Author's Notes:_** Thanks upon thanks upon thanks to Christa, my beta. You guys have no idea what a load of crap this story would be without her constantly calling me on my redundency and loss of character. She seriously deserves co-authorship of this baby. 


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